


used books

by whooves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Pining Enjolras, enjolras and combeferre are book nerds, in the best way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooves/pseuds/whooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras finds a book, finds a picture, and then finds Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	used books

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Abigail](http://vivelarepublique.tumblr.com/) for editing, as always. I should probably also note that the beginning of the plot is based on something that actually happened to her, and I just ran with it because AUs are my lifeblood.

When Enjolras enters the apartment, Combeferre’s gaze is immediately drawn to the large brown paper bag in his arms. “What’s that?” 

“I bought books?” His tone is already guilty. Their apartment is overflowing with books; they both read at lightspeed, and extensively.

“Oh, Enjolras.”

“Shush, Combeferre. The library was having a book sale - twenty-five cents for paperbacks and fifty for hardbacks.”

“Oh. Now that you mention it, I do need something new to read.” Combeferre puts his book down on the ever-growing stack on the coffee table and furrows his eyebrows.

“The sale is all weekend, so we can go back tomorrow,” Enjolras offers hopefully. Combeferre shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but motions Enjolras to sit next to him.

“Come on, show me what you got.”

Enjolras smiles and lifts the stack of eight books out of the bag and onto his lap, unable to cannot contain his excitement. Combeferre only laughs.

“Keats,” he says, picking the first one up. “the binding was pretty, and I thought Jehan-”

“He’ll love it,” Combeferre says, setting it on the table. The binding is indeed lovely, green canvas inlaid with gold letters.

“Um, Game of Thrones. I want to start watching. But I thought I’d read first. I also bought the second one. Another copy of the Social Contract - don’t look at me like that, Combeferre. This one, about Greek mythology. Something that looks like an old philosophy textbook - I thought you might enjoy this one? Ah, and two books of essays on the French Revolution.” Enjolras sits with his books on his lap and grins. They come up to his chest; he can nearly rest his chin on the pile.

“My friend, you have a book problem.” Combeferre briefly clasps Enjolras on the shoulder before moving to the kitchen.

“Half the books in this apartment are yours!” Enjolras calls out as Combeferre walks away from him, chuckling. Enjolras smiles to himself as he sits on the couch alone, and strokes the spine of one of the books. 

-

Enjolras reads late into the night, his feet tucked under Combeferre’s thigh. When he’s finished with the first book of French Revolution essays, he stretches his arms out and sighs. Combeferre doesn’t even look up from his frantic typing as he pats Enjolras on the knee.

With a happy hum, Enjolras grabs the slender tome on Greek mythology and props it against his legs, but then something falls out of it onto his chest. 

“Hey,” he says softly.

“What is it?” Combeferre asks.

“Someone left a picture in my book,” Enjolras says, flipping it over to see the front of the polaroid. His breath catches. 

It’s a man, maybe a few years younger than he is, head thrown back in laughter. he has a book in his lap and is holding a hand up to the camera, a hand which just barely manages not to obscure his face. (It’s a blessing, Enjolras thinks, because that is a gorgeous face.)

“Which book?” Combeferre asks, leaning over to look. “Ooh, you know, they don’t make Polaroid cameras like that any more.”

“It was in the Greek mythology book,” Enjolras says, still studying the photo.

“He’s cute,” Combeferre says casually.

“He’s gorgeous,” Enjolras says. “But I found his picture in a book printed over ten years ago. Who knows how old he is now. He could be dead. He could be on another continent. He could-”

“It’s just a picture, Enjolras,” Combeferre interrupts. “You’re allowed to find him attractive.” Enjolras thinks for a moment, and sighs.

“I do,” is his firm response. The man in the picture may not be the textbook definition of attractive, but Enjolras is drawn to his genuine smile and unruly curls. The arm that’s held out towards the camera is decorated with swirling tattoos, and Enjolras wishes he had a higher quality photo (or, even better, the real thing). Also, he would be flat-out lying if he said that the book in the man’s lap was not a point in his favor.

Before Enjolras goes to bed, he pins the photo to his cork board with the rest of his pictures of his friends, but doesn’t forget about it.

He sees it every day for three semesters before he sees the real thing on the first day of his junior year, and when he does, he’s absolutely stunned. He stops in the throng of students as he watches the man walk past. 

There are a few more tattoos on his arm now and his hair is cut a bit shorter, but it’s unmistakably the man in his photograph. Enjolras has long since finished the mythology book, finished it many, many times, searching for a name, or something, anything that would tell him more about the man in the photo. But now he’s standing watching the guy walk away and he can’t make himself say a word, can’t do anything but stare at him as he walks down the sidewalk and into one of the lecture halls.

Luckily, he’s on his way back to the apartment, because there’s no way he could sit through another class with the way his head is buzzing. Luckily again, Combeferre is sitting on the couch with Courfeyrac when he comes through the kitchen to drop his bag on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre’s voice is slow and incredibly concerned.

“I saw him,” Enjolras says. “The guy from the photograph. He goes to school here. I _saw_ him.”

“Oh shit,” Courfeyrac says, from his place on the couch, head resting in Combeferre’s lap. “That guy you were mooning over for two weeks last year?”

“I did not _moon_ ,” Enjolras glares.

“Yes you did,” Combeferre states plaintively. “You read six Sara Dessen novels in five days.”

“Young Adult fiction is a valid genre choice.” Enjolras’s eyes are narrowed.

“i didn’t say it wasn’t,” Combeferre says. “I’m simply stating that you read six books about people falling in love after you found that photo.”

“Shh, Combeferre. Did you say anything to him?” Courfeyrac hauls himself up to lean against Combeferre’s shoulder, his gaze intently focused on Enjolras.

“No, I couldn’t. There were...people and things.” He winces.

“Articulate.” Combeferre looks at him over his glasses and sighs. “Well, maybe you’ll see him again.” Enjolras whines pitifully at this and sinks to the floor in front of the couch.

“You should meet my roommate, Marius,” Courfeyrac says. “He saw a girl last weekend and didn’t talk to her, and now she’s all he thinks about. The pretty blonde girl in the blue sundress.”

“Well that’s nice but I’m looking for the pretty dark haired man with tattoos on his left arm. Let me know if you see him.” Enjolras leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. Combeferre’s hand clumsily pats his head.

Enjolras does see him again.

Enjolras sees him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. They briefly pass each other on Enjolras’s way home from class. The guy with the tattoos is never with anyone, never carrying anything but his backpack, and never doing anything _except_ walking to class.

Enjolras does what Enjolras does best and worries. He worries that he’s straight because a lot of people, most people, are and then the man might not even want to talk to him. He probably has a pretty girlfriend who has tattoos too and he definitely wouldn’t like Enjolras who can’t even get up the courage to say _hello_.

Enjolras gives speeches. Enjolras runs a club. But Enjolras can’t even make eye contact with the guy who he’s started _pining_ over (Courfeyrac’s words, not his).

It’s hell to have his words stuck in his throat three times a week, to live for the thirty seconds when they pass each other, wondering what’s going on in that head of his.

Enjolras has had this guy’s picture on his wall for a year and a half. He feels like he knows him, and knows he wants to. It’s bizarre and uncharacteristic of Enjolras, who puts little to no emphasis on romantic relationships.

“Just say something to him,” Combeferre says. “Or I am going to tear my hair out.”

“You really should,” Marius pipes in. “If I saw my mystery girl again, I don’t know if anything could stop me from running up to her.”

They’re sitting in Enjolras’s room working on plans for their next meeting, with a Marius tagging along.

“Wait,” Marius frowns. “This is her.”

“What?” Coufeyrac asks.

“My mystery girl is on your corkboard, Enjolras!” He’s pulling at a photo and brings it to Enjolras, who frowns and takes it in his hands. Marius looks like an overexcited puppy bouncing up and down and he’s talking a mile a minute but Enjolras can’t concentrate, can only glare at Marius because - 

“That’s my sister.”

“Marius’s mystery girl is _Cosette_?” Courfeyrac’s jaw drops for a moment, and then he starts laughing. It’s only a few seconds before Combeferre joins him. Enjolras narrows his eyes at Marius.

“Please, please Enjolras you have to introduce me, please.”

“Oh, I can introduce you Marius, it’s no problem,” says Courfeyrac. “She lives down the hall.”

Marius goes white, and at this, Enjolras does crack a small smile. Marius isn’t necessarily his first choice for his younger sister, but he seems relatively harmless. Plus, if Cosette finds out Enjolras kept something like this from her, she would be a tornado of destruction.

Combeferre forces Enjolras to stay in the apartment while Courfeyrac ges to introduce Marius to Cosette, and he pouts the entire time.

“Are you mad because Marius is in love with your sister? Or because he has the courage to talk to the object of his affections and you don’t?”

“Thanks, Combeferre. I appreciate your bluntness veiled by an attack to my character.” Combeferre rolls his eyes, Enjolras is sure of it, even though his own face is pressed into a pillow.

“You know what I-”

“I know,” Enjolras whines, turning his head so his voice is no longer muffled. “But it’s true. But this isn’t _me_. When was the last time I was in a relationship?”

“Four years ago.”

“Yeah, and how did that go?”

“Not well, from what you’ve told me.”

It has been a disaster, actually. A short disaster, but a disaster nonetheless.

“And now I’m _pining_ over someone I don’t even know! He might be straight! What if I ask him out and he’s disgusted or mean or laughs at me?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre’s voice is soft. “You’re not one to be so negative.I know that you’re scared, but the likelihood is that even if he is straight, he’ll be kind.” His fingers find Enjolras’s hair, and quietly play with it until Enjolras speaks.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Would it help if we went over what you’re going to say to him next week, like we go over your speeches?”

“Maybe.”

And this is why Enjolras spends his American History class reviewing notecards of what to say to the man with the tattoos and pretty hair. Notecards are tried and true.

But this is not a speech and Enjolras only has an audience of one, which is why when he finds the man in a shaded part of the quad and steps in front of him, he has trouble forcing words out of his mouth.

(This never happens to him; this is so so horrible; he suddenly remembers why he hasn’t had a crush on anyone in years.)

“I have your picture on my wall,” is the first thing he blurts out, and he immediately slaps a hand over his mouth and turns what he’s sure is a very unattractive shade of red.

But the other man stills and squeaks.

“What?” He says, and his mouth hangs open. He looks a bit scared but not at all angry, which is...not promising, but Enjolras has steeled himself enough that he doesn’t quite resign himself to running for the hills just yet.

“Um, I found a picture of you in a book and it’s on my wall.”

“Which book?” the man asks, cocking his head to the side, and Enjolras is so thrown by his question that it takes him a moment to process an answer.

“Goddesses in Greek Mythology?”

“Oh, well that makes sense. Classics major.” He gestures to himself. “Not sure why there was a picture of me in it but,” and at this he shrugs.

“I got it at the library book sale last year,” Enjolras says, feeling like he wants to dig himself a deeper hole. The man in front of him blinks.

“You’ve had my picture on your wall for a year?”

“Yes. Closer to a year and a half. Yes. I should probably stop talking.”

“That’s...a bit strange. Why?”

“I um...liked your tattoos? And your book? I’m not sure.”

“Are you stalking me?” His eyes narrow.

“No!” Enjolras throws up his hands and hastily defends himself. “I haven’t seen you until this year and we cross paths some days and I just wanted to figure out how to talk to you, which I am admittedly not doing a great job of.”

The man in front of him laughs, and Enjolras turns pink.

“No, hey, don’t blush, that’s actually _adorable_. But you’re cute when you blush too.” The second part is a low undertone, as he leans toward Enjolras with a smile.

Enjolras gapes for a moment, but ultimately is able to shut his mouth and form a coherent sentence.

“It’s not adorable. It’s creepy and maybe a bit pathetic,” he mumbles. 

“Nope, just adorable.” He pauses. “Okay, maybe a bit creepy, but you seem relatively harmless.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras mutters.

“Um...I have to go to class but can I give you my number? Maybe we can get coffee tomorrow or later? You can give me that photo if you don’t want it on your wall anymore.” he says it with a wink, like he knows what Enjolras’s answer will be to _that_.

Enjolras is finding himself uncharacteristically speechless rather often these days.

“Yeah. Definitely. Yes. Um, just,” he fumbles in his bag for a minute trying to find his cell phone before the man just grabs his wrist and writes a number across his forearm in pen, and then below it writes ‘R.’ “R?” he asks, looking at his arm.

“Yeah,” the man laughs, “R, Grantaire, but just R is fine. Call me. Text me. Either, really.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says breathlessly. “I will.” Grantaire smiles at him, and Enjolras remembers something. “Oh! My name is Enjolras.”

Grantaire laughs, but takes Enjolras’s hand in his own, and they don’t so much shake hands as hold hands for a beat.

“It’s _very_ nice to meet you Enjolras. Even if I am late for class. Text me.” With a wink, he’s gone towards one of the academic buildings, and Enjolras is left standing under the trees in the fading summer’s heat.

_**Enjolras:** You can have your picture back, if you want it_  
 _ **Grantaire:** You can keep it, but I think it’s only fair that I get to take one of you ;)_  
 _ **Enjolras** : If you insist :)_


End file.
